Crisis in Sex Tourism

My arrival in Bangkok coincided with the military crackdown on the anti-government protesters. M-16s versus firecrackers and slingshots. The death toll was close to 100and the wounded over a thousand. A nationwide curfew closed the bars of Patpong, Nana Plaza, and Soi Cowboy. Walking Street in Pattaya was dead. Only the Full Moon Bar in Jomtien was open for two drunk vikings, Mam, Fenway, and me. Our soi was off the police radar.

The Old Roue lives on Soi Nana. Close to ground zero. He reported that the shooting sounded like a Blackwater security squad taking on a car filled with Iraqi women. Indiscriminate. Deadly. Heavy.

“Loud loud and then dangerously loud.”

Burning and looting the shopping malls of the elite.

“The smoke billowing over the skyscrapers was Central Mall.”

Gucci, Rolex, Versace in flames.

A writer for Slate Magazine was covering the uprising and found time to extol the courage of sex tourists who brave the bullets to support the Thai sex industry. Jessica Olien noted that most of the bars and go-gos and brothels and massage parlors had been closed by the curfew, however the farangs were blase about the violence. It was Thai versus Thai. Like most women she sneered at the sex-mongers. With good reason, for the most part they are scumbags.

But not the Old Roue.

Girls were calling him for dates throughout the chaos.

“My favorite offered me a ten-day package. Half the price of normal. She needed money to send home. A sick buffalo or car or brother in jail. I didn’t ask.” The old Roue had been in Thailand for several years. He had avoided the usual trap of falling in love. His preference was to be a good kak or client. The girls of Nana Plaza liked him for his honesty. Sex for money and a good laugh. Soo-nuk. “Who was I to refuse her. She came over the first night. We spent a good two hours together. I expected her to stay the night, except she said that I didn’t have a TV.”

The Old Roue like myself have abandoned TV in favor of books. They put us to sleep faster.

“The next night Cher beats the curfew by ten minutes. We try a different room.” The Old Roue lives atop a 6-story building. His penthouse is at treetop level. The style is Lanna Thai. Deep red wood and lacquer furniture. Low-rent 007 decor. “Two hours later Cher is ready to go. I tell her it’s dangerous. No TV. No one her age can live without it. Her cousin picks her up. At least she says it’s her cousin.”

Cher spiced up her routine with a friend. Neither girl was scared by the army or curfew. Some heartless male once said that for every beautiful woman there a man down the street tired of fucking her and I asked the Old Roue if he found his 1-day package losing its edge.

“Not at all.” The Old Roue was well-read and paraphrased Samuel Johnson. “Any man tired of fucking young women is tired of life.”

Salut te moritum.

Mam, Fenway’s mom, is only 26. The sight of her coming out of the shower is like tossing gasoline on the fire of my libido. The Slate journalist might not understand how men feel about sex.

After all she’s American.

And who wants to fuck an American girl?

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